


and at the bottom of the bottle, there is nothing

by i_write_hurt_not_comfort



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Crying, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post Anime, Post-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting, bc u know it's yut-lung, fic swap, idk i couldn't decide whether or not to make it shippy so it's a weird mix, it's kind of platonic and kind of romantic, mental breakdowns, mentions of all the canon deaths and all that jazz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24375841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_write_hurt_not_comfort/pseuds/i_write_hurt_not_comfort
Summary: It takes three drunken arguments for Sing to decide Yut-Lung has become an alcoholic, and 72 hours of withdrawal for Yut-Lung to finally accept that that isn't okay.
Relationships: Lee Yut-Lung & Sing Soo-Ling
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	and at the bottom of the bottle, there is nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bagel_San](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bagel_San/gifts).



> hey so i finally finished this fic! i watched banana fish about two months ago and oh my gooood it broke my heart! i particularly fell in love with yut-lung (as much as he's a bastard and all), and the scene in ep24 with sing had me sobbing. i've written a lot of addiction and withdrawal fics but alcoholism isn't one i've written in much detail, so here it is. it's long, i know. i'm glad it's finally finished lol. also, i haven't read any of the other stories/manga - i've only watched the anime - so i apologise if the context isn't quite canon compliant.   
> please read the content warnings for potential triggers.  
> enjoy!

The first time Sing sees something is wrong with Yut-Lung’s drinking is only after Eiji left.

It’s a week after Eiji got on that plane, and Sing waved him goodbye, knowing full-well he probably wouldn’t see him again. It’s a week since Ash died. It’s a week after Sing found out Lao had stabbed him. And it’s a week after Sing told Yut-Lung to get a grip of himself, and sort Chinatown out.

A lot has happened in the last week, but today, even _Sing_ is exhausted at the end of it. Yut-Lung is tired easily (he’s a total diva, and whilst Sing sometimes finds his tendencies amusing, most of the time it’s damn annoying), but Sing – not so much.

The issue is, Sing can see that he’s hurting, and he’s slowly (very, very slowly, of course) starting to learn who Yut-Lung really is, beneath the cold, bitter, hateful façade. He can see his heart bleeding. He’s learning Yut-Lung’s boundaries, and to what extent he can tell him that he’s wrong before he gets genuinely upset.

For the rest of Chinatown, it’s a little more complicated than that. Which is why Sing expects some days to be good, and some to be good.

As he hauls himself up the stairs of the apartment block the two had taken temporary residence in, with Yut-Lung following a few steps behind, most likely on the verge of tears, Sing officially concludes that today has been one of those bad days. People had been angry. There had been fights. And Sing was _still_ in the process of teaching Yut-Lung that just because you don’t like them, it doesn’t mean you can poison them on a whim. (Seriously, he often wonders how _he’s_ the younger one).

They enter the apartment, eventually, and Sing groans upon seeing the mess from yesterday’s dinner which he absolutely cannot be bothered to clean up now. Since their goal to bring peace back to Chinatown, Sing has had to move Yut-Lung out of his mansion – too many people knew he was there. Golzine’s men were also still a threat, as well as Ash’s gang – once they figure out Lao, one of Yut-Lung’s men, was the one who killed Ash.

As they stumble into the kitchen, Sing asks, “You want any dinner?”

At first, Yut-Lung doesn’t reply. He simply stands leaning against the kitchen counter, his hair falling over his face, and Sing is fairly certain he’s going to cry again or lose his shit again.

“Hey, man, _listen_.” He sighs, his patience wearing thin. “Dinner or not?”

“I’m not hungry,” Yut-Lung replies sulkily, at which point Sing gives up on trying for the night, and instead opens the fridge, and pulls out a beer.

“Whatever,” Sing rolls his eyes, pushes past him and walks straight into the lounge. There, he collapses on the sofa, and sips the beer. The taste of this cheap stuff is pretty nasty, but Sing is too exhausted to be fussy right now.

Moments later, Yut-Lung joins him, a bottle of champagne in one hand and a champagne flute in the other hand. (Yeah, Yut-Lung’s tastes are slightly more expensive). He pours himself a glance, still standing up, before placing the bottle on the small table, and sitting on the sofa next to Sing. Staring at the glass for a few seconds, Yut-Lung suddenly downs the drink, before picking up the bottle and refilling the glass.

“Jesus, slow down,” Sing frowns, watching Yut-Lung sneer derisively, before he rolls his eyes for the second time that minute. His tone slightly softer, he says, “What _this_ time?”

“Ha,” Yut-Lung snorts, and Sing considers punching him for a second. “You seem to think I’m much more delicate than I am. I don’t care what _those_ people think.”

“Right, but it’s your fault Chinatown is so fucked in the first place. How many times do I have to say that?” Sing says, his words growing more and more impatient. “You can’t just whip out a vial of poison!”

“It would’ve ended the discussion much faster,” Yut-Lung says, dragging his fingers through his hair. He snorts again, then downs half the glass of champagne.

“Yeah, and started another,” Sing deadpans. “Whatever. We’re going back there tomorrow.” He sighs, “I know this is hard. Give it time.”

At that, Yut-Lung gives a childish pout, then finishes the champagne in his glass.

“And don’t drink too much,” Sing tries again, meeting Yut-Lung’s eyes just for a second before they avert to the bottle. Bringing the beer to his lips, he grumbles under his breath, “You’re an emotional drunk, and I can’t be assed to deal with that tonight…”

When Yut-Lung pours the third glass with little vacillation, Sing concludes that he wasn’t listening.

* * *

The second time Sing notices something is wrong with Yut-Lung’s drinking is a month after the first time.

Today was the first day in a while he’d actually had the freedom to go out and do something for himself. Everything in his life has revolved around fixing Chinatown whilst hauling around Yut-Lung’s emotional baggage, but things are getting better now. Chinatown is only dangerous at night now, hence Sing always leaves Yut-Lung in the apartment alone. The people from Chinatown are still on good terms with Ash’s gang, sharing the bar Ash used to own.

It’s 2am by the time Sing returns to their apartment, his head slightly cloudy from perhaps one too many beers. But it’s not much – he has to keep his guard up, after all. As he arrives at the door, he groans internally, noting the lights are still on. Yut-Lung is almost always in his room by now, unless he wants to be particularly demanding.

Sing is too tired to deal with him being _demanding_. But as he swallows it down, opens the door, and spots Yut-Lung stretched across the sofa, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, Sing realises that Yut-Lung is going to be a _different_ kind of problem tonight.

“Why are you still awake?” he grunts the second he passes the threshold into the apartment.

“Ah, Sing,” Yut-Lung greets, raising the glass to him. An indecipherable grin pulls at his lips as he sips a little more of the whiskey, before nodding at the other. “Welcome back.”

From the very sound of Yut-Lungs words – slurred, quiet, and devoid of emotion – Sing knows he’s drunk. And he knows he’s drunk because Yut-Lung has been drunk nearly every evening for the last month. And until now, it hasn’t bothered him, because usually he passes out cold in his room before midnight, two bottles of champagne later. Sing couldn’t blame him, either. Because, as he’s thought to himself so many, this isn’t exactly easy on Yut-Lung. A few drinks seemed understandable.

This time, though, he’s still awake. He’s not just drinking champagne or wine, either.

“Cut the crap, Yue,” Sing sighs, sitting on the sofa next to his feet. “This isn’t okay.”

At that, Yut-Lung snorts derisively, a twisted, patronising smile tugging at his lips, as he brings the tumbler to them once again, and sips. Then, he gives a bitter laugh, and says, “It’s almost as if you care about me.” His twisted smirk quickly turns to a frown, as he leans forward, and twists the cap off the whiskey bottle. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“Because I do care about you, idiot!” Sing yells, feeling something snap inside of him. Thankfully, because Yut-Lung’s actions are delayed, he’s able to swiftly swipe the whiskey bottle from his grip, storming over to the kitchen and tossing it in the bin. He hears a smash as the glass clatters against the metal. He groans, remembering not to flip out at a drunk, emotional Yut-Lung, but he’s genuinely concerned and he can’t help it. “Look, I’m not gonna tell you off for just a few drinks, but this is getting ridiculous. I can’t name _one night_ in the last month where you _haven’t_ been drunk.”

“Yeah?! So what?!” Yut-Lung snaps, and Sing knows he’s done it now. The other stands up, wavering in his steps. His red silk gown nearly slips off his shoulders, but he drunkenly grabs it. With a long, angry exhale, Yut-Lung drags a hand through his hair and says, “Everything is so easy for _you_! Everyone loves you! You’re leading everyone after Shorter’s death, and they’ll _listen_ to you!”

“This isn’t _easy_ for me, dumbass!” Sing yells, slamming a hand down on the counter. Damn right he doesn’t have it easy, but as always, Yut-Lung’s world exclusively revolves around Yut-Lung. “Things might be slowly getting better, sure, but that doesn’t take away from the fact people still think I betrayed Chinatown by sympathising with you! People don’t know your story, Yue, and I’m not an asshole who’s gonna go out there and tell everyone about what you’ve been through! That means we have to work _together_ unless you want to get assassinated!” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “And we don’t need any more murderers around here.”

“If keeping me alive is so much of a _burden_ ,” Yut-Lung’s expression contorts into one of disgust, “then why don’t _you_ just kill me?! People would love you even more for that!”

“Enough with the fucking suicidal _bullshit_!” Sing says, gritting his teeth and inhaling again. He needs to calm down, because one of them has to if this isn’t going to get ugly, and when Yut-Lung is a drunk, emotional mess, it sure as hell won’t be him. “I said I’d help you bring back peace to Chinatown. I’m sticking with my word!”

“That’s so egotistical,” Yut-Lung snorts bitterly, “Just leave me. It’ll be easier for you that way.”

“Yue, you have a job to do, whether you like it or not,” Sing sighs, his eyebrows furrowing. “Even though some people might still hate you, you’re not the victim here. Quit acting like it.”

At that, the angry, malicious expression returns to Yut-Lung’s face, and he storms up to Sing. Sing knows where this is going – it’s going where all of their arguments go – and sure enough, seconds later, Yut-Lung slaps him round the face. It stings, for a second, but Sing responds as he always does a moment after: by slapping him back, twice as hard.

Right before his palm meets the other’s face, he sees tears brimming in his eyes, but he notices too late. Like every single damn time, Yut-Lung falls to the floor like a damsel in distress, his hair splaying over his shoulders as he meets the carpet with an audible thud.

Sing can’t bring himself to actually _apologise_ , but he does feel slightly guilty. “Self-destruction won’t make this any better, Yue.”

When he sits up, Yut-Lung begins sobbing quietly, planting a hand over his face. He says nothing, refusing to meet Sing’s eyes as the tears trail down his cheeks, his hands shake, and his cheeks flush a pale red.

“You’re drunk,” Sing deadpanned, tentatively crouching down beside him and holding a hand out. “Go to bed.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Yut-Lung snaps, although his words are much more pathetic and wretched than they are threatening. He stands up, tripping over the edge of the coffee table in the process. “I’ve already told you; I don’t want your _sympathy_!”

Sing sighs, standing up to try and talk rationally, but before he can, Yut-Lung disappears into his bedroom. It’s times like these when Sing thinks that perhaps he isn’t that good at dealing with Yut-Lung’s emotional trauma. He wants to be angry, but his heart aches, and he’s too tired to follow him into his room and scold him whilst he’s still drunk.

Instead of pressing it further, Sing breathes out exhaustedly, then hauls himself into his bedroom. He collapses face first onto the bed, realising that Yut-Lung probably won’t even remember tonight’s interaction by the morning.

Tomorrow night, however, he’s sure will be another drunken argument.

* * *

The third time Sing notices his drinking is problematic is the most gut-wrenching. And it’s the time Sing finally decides that something has to change.

A month later, it’s their first day off in ages. Finally, things are starting to look up. People trust Sing’s leadership, and they’re slowly beginning to trust Yut-Lung, too. They’ve learnt the truth, too – admittedly, _that_ probably hasn’t been easy on Yut-Lung, and Sing understands that. For that reason, he tries not to scold the other too much, but when Yut-Lung has insisted on getting drunk every night, as usual, and then being super bitchy and moody, he can’t help it.

It’s gotten better, though. Yut-Lung’s random suicidal statements aren’t as frequent, albeit he does insist on more and more time alone. Sing lets him, because he knows that, soon, he’ll be able to move back to his home. And he won’t admit it, but he honestly thinks he’ll miss Yut-Lung.

Last night, the other got drunker than usual, but for once, Sing doesn’t mind, because he knew they weren’t doing anything today. Which is why it’s odd when Yut-Lung emerges from his bedroom at 11am. (Still, it’s not a particularly acceptable time to be getting up anyway, but despite being a gang leader, Sing _is_ still a 14-year-old teenage boy, for whom staying in bed is often much more appealing). He’d expected him to be hungover and bitchy all morning, but Yut-Lung is quite the opposite, as he silently traipses over to the kitchen, and sits at the table. He flashes Sing a loose smile, before shrugging his dressing gown further over his shoulders.

Sing, for a brief second, has the urge to comment on how much weight it looks like he’s lost, but instead, he simply says, “G’morning.”

“Morning,” Yut-Lung says, his words soft and feeble. Sing narrows his eyes, wondering why he’s putting on the sweet, innocent façade he usually uses to deceive his enemies.

He says no more, continuing to make breakfast. He’s not the best cook in the world, but Yut-Lung can shove it up his ass if he wants to complain again.

… But, this time, as he hands him the plate and sits down opposite him, Sing is actually _concerned,_ because Yut-Lung _doesn’t_ complain. He doesn’t thank him, mind you – instead, he flashes him a crooked smile, and simply stares down at the food.

“Not hungry?” Sing asks, with a mouthful of food, which doesn’t taste that great but he’s not fussy enough to care.

“Not really, no,” Yut-Lung says, his words still void of emotions. As if the question startled him, though, he gets up a moment later, and walks to the kitchen. He says nothing, still, as he switches on the kettle and takes out a mug.

It’s at that moment, when Yut-Lung takes out the tea bags – he thinks it’s green tea, but he isn’t sure – and drops one into the mug, that Sing sees his hands are shaking. When he grabs the kettle, and pours the boiling water in, and stirs the tea with a spoon, his hands seem to shake even more.

For a second or two, Sing feels sick. Then, he furrows his eyebrows, a deep frown pulling across his face. His mouth drops open, and he raises a finger, getting ready to have a go at the other. But then, he stops, sinking back into the chair. Ninety percent of him is dead certain he knows what’s going on, and _why_ he’s shaking like that, and acting so damn mellow, but Sing doesn’t want to accuse him when he has no evidence.

Their eyes meet, for a brief second. Yut-Lung immediately tears his eyes away, then shuffles back to his bedroom, muttering something about getting dressed.

Once he’s alone, Sing resumes eating his breakfast, but he’s not hungry anymore. He sighs, feeling as though he’s drowning in the silence. There’s no sound coming from Yut-Lung’s room whatsoever.

So, he leaves him alone. For five minutes.

Still, there is only silence.

“Seriously, man…” Sing sighs, facepalming exhaustedly. It’s not even midday and he’s already drained. “Son of a bitch…”

Reluctantly, he stands up, puts his plate in the sink, and then treads lightly over to Yut-Lung’s bedroom door. He hates the fact he’s concerned, and that he can’t just leave the kid alone, but he can’t. Because the image of the way his hands shook is something Sing cannot get out of his head.

He doesn’t bother knocking. He just kicks the door in, snapping the lock right off the handle.

“What are you doing?” Yut-Lung snaps immediately, an angry glare pulling across his face. He’s halfway through plaiting his hair, sitting at his dressing table.

Sing’s eyes shoot from his hands – no longer shaking – to the mug, half drunk.

“What are _you_ doing?!” he snaps. Before Yut-Lung can stop him, he grabs the mug, and sniffs it. Sure enough, the smell of almost pure alcohol assaults his nose, and he launches the mug at the wall, watching the china shatter and the tea spill all over the carpet. He’ll have to clean that up later, but that’s the least of his concerns right now. “Why the fuck are you adding _tequila_ to you tea?!”

“Why does it matter to you?!” Yut-Lung screams back, although his words hold a lot less weight, and are much shriller. He stands up, staggering a little, then closes the gap between him and Sing. When Sing gets no less angry, he laughs in derision. “Haha…! Yes, I’ve been drunk for the last two months!” The bitter frown returns to Yut-Lung’s face, and Sing can hardly keep up. “What does it mean to you?!”

“We’re partners, you absolute idiot!” Sing yells. Yut-Lung raises a hand to slap him, but Sing refuses to do this again, and instead grabs his wrist before he can swing. The other squirms in his hold for a bit, before Sing throws him onto the bed. He lands dramatically with an audible thump.

When Sing hears sobbing, again, he grows a little guilty.

“You have a problem, Yue,” he says, concern woven deeply into his words. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“What does it matter to you?!” Yut-Lung screams, waving his hands around erratically as if it somehow emphasis his point. “My drinking means nothing to you! You just want to think you’ve somehow _helped_ me, but you haven’t! You never could! No one could _ever_ love or care about me! So don’t you dare pretend to!”

Sing sighs, and spends a few moments brooding over his next words, as Yut-Lung continues crying to himself.

“Frankly, I could leave you to your own devices until you get alcohol poisoning, like you probably want me to. Or, I could throw you back to your mansion, when you’d likely get assassinated eventually.” He pauses, waiting for Yut-Lung to finish sobbing for a second. “But you still have a duty to protect the Chinese here. I’m not going to let you die just because you want to.” Sing sighs, sitting on the bed beside him. He stares at his hands, fiddling meaningless for a bit. “I’ve come to like you, Yue. As a partner, and as a friend.”

“That’s just cringey.” Yut-Lung tries to laugh, but rather produces a sob.

“You need to detox,” Sing says, “You’re an alcoholic, Yue. It needs to stop.”

“I am not!” Yut-Lung denies, responding with a long, exhausted groan, before collapsing onto the bed. He buries his fact in the pillow, but continues facing Sing nonetheless. Sulkily, he mutters, “I don’t see why I have to stop drinking. It’s not exactly a problem.”

“Try telling that to your drunk ass who tries to slap me every night,” Sing scoffs, then sighs softly. “You were drinking spirits in your tea, Yue. That’s not okay. That’s a problem. So it’s time to stop.”

“Hmph,” Yut-Lung pouts. He wants to protest, and Sing can tell, but he won’t say anything. Not yet. He’ll pretend it’s okay, and that it won’t bother him. “Fine.”

“Good.” Sing stands up, and puts his arms on his waist. “You start now.”

“Huh?!” Yut-Lung shoots up from where he was laying almost instantly. “At least give me some warning!”

“Oh?” Sing raises an eyebrow teasing, and delivers a mocking laugh. “I thought you didn’t have a problem.”

“I _don’t._ ” He groans again, then buries his face further into the pillow, muffling his words. “Now leave me alone.”

“Alright.” Throwing his arms up in surrender, Sing stands up again, cracking his knuckles. “I’m going to get rid of your alcohol stash.”

Yut-Lung lifts his head, drops his mouth opens, and gets ready to protest. Sing copies his facial expression, opening and closing his mouth exaggeratingly to imitate the other. A moment later, Yut-Lung realises he’s being mocked, and returns to sulking into the pillow.

* * *

By the time evening comes around, the extent of Yut-Lung’s problem truly starts coming to light.

They’ve done nothing all day. After Yut-Lung had locked himself in his bedroom, Sing had forced himself to go shopping and buy some actual food, because living off takeaway like they had been for the past two months probably wasn’t best for Yut-Lung’s recovery. He stopped at the houses of some of his closer acquaintances for a couple of hours, got mildly stoned, then headed back to the apartment.

When he returned, Sing was honestly surprised to find Yut-Lung curled up on the sofa, reading a book. Their eyes barely met, and they didn’t utter a word to each other, but it was better than finding Yut-Lung drunk or throwing a tantrum, or both.

By the time evening came around, Sing couldn’t be bothered with cooking actual food, and now they’re on the sofa together, sitting half a metre apart eating takeaway pizza. Well, not really – Sing is eating the pizza, and Yut-Lung is staring at the floor, fiddling with his hair. He managed one slice of pizza, and Sing is fairly certain there’s no point pushing for him to eat more than that. The TV is playing something in the background, but he knows neither of them are paying attention.

After watching Yut-Lung run his shaking fingers through his hair for the fifth time that minute, Sing finally speaks. “Why didn’t you tell me something was wrong?”

At first, Sing wonders if the other even heard him. But eventually, he responds, by muttering in a weak, sheepish voice, “I didn’t think you’d care.”

For a moment, he’s silent. Sing desperately wants to scoff and tell him how _much_ he cares, because he’s learnt so damn much about Yut-Lung in the last couple of months. And he gets him – he gets every bit of pain and suffering he feels. He understands what it’s like to be betrayed by someone who you trusted. And as much as he’s a total diva, Sing would be lying if he said he didn’t find some of Yut-Lung’s tendencies amusing. He’s smart, too; sometimes, Sing has to take a moment to appreciate just how _much_ he knows about Toxicology, and all things in that area.

But Sing knows he can’t say that. So, he just scoffs, as if it means almost _nothing_ : “Of course I care. I’m your friend, idiot.”

Yut-Lung says nothing. Sing can’t even see the faintest fragments of a smile pulling at his lips.

The silence proceeds a little longer, before he asks, “How’re you feeling?”

At that, Yut-Lung simply shrugs, and mumbles sulkily, “Fine.”

“Fine my ass,” Sing snorts derisively. “I can see you shaking.” He pauses, watching as Yut-Lung sinks further into the sofa. “Didn’t you know this would happen if you drank for two months straight?”

“Of course I _knew,_ ” Yut-Lung scoffs, almost offended that he’s just been asked that. “I didn’t care.”

“Well I care!” Sing blurts out, and regrets it the very second after the words left his lips. He scratches the side of his head, hoping Yut-Lung doesn’t think too deeply about that. “Sorry,” he mutters, and then asks, “How long has it been since your last drink?”

“Mind your business!” Yut-Lung snaps, standing up. As he storms off, heading to his bedroom with tears brimming in his eyes, Sing decides to leave him. He sighs exhaustedly, burying his face in his hands. In hindsight, asking that was stupid, and was always going to provoke the other – he already knows it’s been over 12 hours since his last drink.

He also knows he’s cleared Yut-Lung’s room _and_ the kitchen cabinet of all the alcohol they once held, and for that reason, Sing decides to leave him alone for now.

A second later, he hears a smash, and then the muffled sound of him crying. It isn’t until now that Sing realises he doesn’t actually know what to expect from this. After stuffing another slice of pizza into his mouth, he stands up, cracks his knuckles, and pulls out his laptop.

* * *

By 2am, and after nearly 6 hours of research from every goddamn website he could find, Sing begins to realise that perhaps withdrawal isn’t going to be particularly easy.

He’s researched the symptoms, and the timeline for said symptoms. He hopes to God that Yut-Lung won’t reach the _really_ bad stuff – stuff like delirium tremors and seizures – because he’s only been drinking for two months (albeit it pretty heavily). The other symptoms, like headaches, mood swings and vomiting, he’s sure to expect.

Just as he closes the last tab, Sing hears him running across their bedroom to the bathroom. With a long, deep sigh, he stands up, and starts slowly heading towards the door, fairly certain which stage of the withdrawal he’s entering now. Sure enough, he enters the bedroom, and finds Yut-Lung’s bed empty.

The door to the en-suite is half open, and through the crack, Sing can see Yut-Lung, hunched over the toilet and retching painfully. He groans internally, realising this is going to be difficult, and exhausting, and Sing wants nothing more than to curl up and sleep. But he can’t, because this was his idea – _he’s_ the one who told Yut-Lung he had to detox, so he rightfully has to see him through.

For a brief second, when he lifts his head, Yut-Lung meets Sing’s. And despite the fact they’re bloodshot and filled with tears, quite clearly showing he’s teetering on a breakdown, he still looks incredibly angry. That glare dies a second later, though, as he gags again, and turns his head back to the toilet, loose strands of hair draping over his face.

Part of Sing thinks he’s an idiot; he did this to himself, after all. But the other half of him feels bad, because he’s still technically just a child, having been forced out of his luxury and into a world where everyone wants him dead, and he has no one to support him any longer. He fell into the pit of addiction, and Sing is honestly angry at himself for not picking up on it.

With that in mind, he goes into the bathroom. “Yue?”

“Go away,” Yut-Lung spits, and then he sniffs, and that’s when Sing knows for certain that he’s been sobbing.

“No,” Sing says, crouching down beside the other. He waits until Yut-Lung finishing heaving for the moment, and then delicately pulls his hair into his hands, out of his face. “Do you have a hair-tie?”

Exhaustedly, Yut-Lung lifts his shaking hand, his sleeve falling down to reveal a few black elastic hairbands hanging loosely to his wrist. When Sing’s fingers brush against his wrist, pulling one of them off, he sees the other shudder, and only then does he realise how thin he’s gotten because of this. For a moment, he feels sick merely thinking about it, then forces himself to focus on the feeling of Yut-Lung’s hair running through his fingers.

A moment later, he asks, “Do you know how to plait?”

“Obviously,” Sing scoffs, and then decides he shouldn’t have said that, because he’s never actually plaited anyone’s hair before. He simply knows _in theory_ how it’s done.

To little surprise, as he lifts his head a little more, Yut-Lung demands, “Plait it.”

“Fine, fine,” Sing sighs, rolling his eyes in a desperate attempt to conceal the smile threatening to pull at his lips.

Before he does so, he stands up, and pours a glass of water, handing it to Yut-Lung. He stares at it, for a few seconds, before tentatively sipping it, as Sing kneels behind him, and begins to plait his hair.

Sing is pretty sure Yut-Lung can tell he doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but he doesn’t care, as he continues roughly interweaving three loose strands.

“You’re terrible at this,” Yut-Lung snorts, as Sing reaches about halfway.

“Yeah, well this is your fault for having ridiculously long hair!” Sing scoffs, and then eases his tone as he asks, “You feelin’ better now?”

At first, Yut-Lung doesn’t respond at all. Then, his eyes widen slightly, and he gags again, hanging his head further over the toilet bowl. Sing glances away – he can’t deal with watching him throw up – but that doesn’t mean he can’t hear how painful it sounds, particularly when he’s eaten hardly anything all day. As he continues retching, Sing eventually places a hand on his back, rubbing soft circles until he’s not moving anymore, spare the constant tremours.

“I didn’t know this would happen…” Yut-Lung whines weakly, blindly grabbing the glass of watching as sipping it again, as a bead of sweat falls down his forehead.

“Neither did I,” Sing mutters, before finishing the plait. It’s not great, but he doesn’t suppose Yut-Lung could do much better on himself currently. “Come on. Let’s get you back to bed.”

Yut-Lung doesn’t say anything, and his expression remains stoic, untelling of what he’s feeling or thinking. In fact, if not for the tears brimming in his eyes, Sing is sure he wouldn’t have a clue he was even struggling. But he knew he was, so he didn’t yell at him, or tell him off. Instead, he guides him back to the bed without another word.

“My head hurts,” Yut-Lung says, as he throws the blanket over himself and clutches it.

“I’ll get you some painkillers,” Sing replies, and then wrinkles his nose and adds, “and a bucket.”

Moments later, Sing is by his side again, handing him two paracetamol tablets and a glass of water. On the floor next to his bed, he places a bucket, hoping to God that Yut-Lung watched him do that, because he really can’t be bothered to do any actual cleaning for that.

“My head still hurts,” Yut-Lung repeats, burying his face in his pillow and muffling his words.

“Of course it does, dummy,” Sing says, raising an eyebrow. “You only took the painkillers twenty seconds ago.”

To that, Yut-Lung doesn’t respond, and Sing decides not to say anything either. Instead, he leaves the room without another word, collapsing onto the sofa and passing out the moment his head hits the pillow.

* * *

The next time Sing wakes up, it’s to the sound of something breaking.

The moment he hears it, he sits up. And the moment Sing’s eyes meet the clock, showing that it’s a few minutes past 10am, he curses internally, and subsequently collapses back against the sofa. He must’ve passed out last night, and Yut-Lung is obviously going to be angry at him for leaving him alone for eight hours.

When Sing hears another smash, a mere few seconds later, he finally stands up, drags a hand through his hair, and hauls himself to the bedroom, not bothering to knock – and Yut-Lung better not complain, because he sure as hell lost all his privacy rights when he became a goddamn alcoholic.

“Why are you breaking things?” Sing asks, trying (and failing) to tone down the passive aggressiveness in his words. He meets Yut-Lung eyes for a bried second, finding the other cross-legged on his pillow, fiddling with his hair. There’s a broken glass and broken tea cup on the floor by the bed.

“Why do you _think_?” Yut-Lung spits, then continues fiddling with his hair. His face contorts into one of pure frustration, as he somehow gets his fingers stuck in his hair. He tears them out after a few seconds of struggling, then meets Sings eyes again. “Well don’t just stand there!”

“Well what exactly do you want me to do?!” Sing yells, throwing his arms up. He’s slowly losing patience now, and the ache in his neck caused by sleeping on the sofa isn’t exactly helping his perseverance.

“I don’t know,” Yut-Lung pouted, then crosses his arms over his chest and mutters, “I feel sick.”

“Go to the bathroom then, idiot,” Sing scoffs, running a hand through his hair again. “Is there anything else?”

“My head hurts,” Yut-Lung whines, before his eyes widen a moment later, and he slides off the bed. Somewhat hurriedly, with one hand plastered over his mouth, he stumbles to the bathroom, and this time Sing doesn’t bother questioning himself as he grabs a bottle of water from the kitchen quickly, then follows him in there.

Wordlessly, he crouches down beside him, and waits for him to finish heaving for the moment before passing the bottle over. Brushing the hair away from his hair, and grimacing in utter disgust as he notices the vomit it in, Yut-Lung takes the bottle, sipping it tentatively before throwing it against the wall.

“You need a bath,” Sing says, picking up the bottle and refilling it. “You fuckin’ stink, man!”

“That’s not my problem,” Yut-Lung pouts, as he collapses against the cupboard below the sink. He does so in such a dramatic way it’s unnecessary, but when he’s exhausted and in pain, Sing really cannot be bothered to deal with him right now.

“It is,” Sing groans, then kicks his legs out of the way and begins running the bath. When he hears Yut-Lung sobbing again, he sighs, and says slightly softer, “You’re doing well, Yue.”

“You’re lying,” the other pouts, and then downs the rest of the water as if it’s vodka.

“Fine,” Sing says, perching on the edge of the bath tub. “Relapse, then, and I’ll send you to rehab instead.”

“Hmph,” Yut-Lung pouts, dragging himself up with the help of the sink. He wipes his tears, then stares at Sing for a second before flipping out. “Well get out then!”

Without another word, Sing throws his arms up in surrender, and gets the hell out of there. At the stage, if Yut-Lung wants to go through this alone, then he can. But, soon enough, Sing is _sure_ he’ll break.

* * *

That night, when Sing is awoken at 4am by crying, he knows Yut-Lung is about to break.

He feels bad the moment his eyes open and he looks at the time. At 10pm, he’d promised Yut-Lung he’d be back before midnight, and then he’d proceeded to return at 1am and pass out on the sofa. All he had to do is settle some minor troubles across the city – it wasn’t even to do with Yut-Lung this time (for once), and yet it’d exhausted him somehow. Everyone had asked how he was doing, and Sing found himself lying on the other’s behalf, saying he was fine, simply to cover for the other.

Sitting up, Sing stretches, and rubs the sleep out of his eyes before peeling himself off the sofa. It’s nearly over, he tells himself. Yut-Lung will start to get considerably better in a few days, he tells himself.

The crying doesn’t get quieter. Sing suppresses a sigh and an eye roll, as he kicks open the door – what’s knocking? – and sure enough spots Yut-Lung, cocooned in the sheets. He’s got his face buried in a pillow, but somehow, that doesn’t hide his complete breakdown from Sing.

“What’s up now?” Sing says, trying so, _so_ hard not to sound exasperated. When Yut-Lung doesn’t reply, Sing tries again, a little softer. “Oi, come on. Talk to me.”

“No,” Yut-Lung mutters sulkily, but nonetheless, he sits up, and throws the blanket off his face. His hair is a mess, he’s shaky, and his eyes are puffy and red, as they meet Sing’s. And he stares, for just another few seconds, effectively begging Sing to ask him again.

Sing doesn’t really want to give in and play his stupid games, but it’s 4am, he’s had three hours of sleep, and frankly, he can’t be bothered. He knows the withdrawal timeline; this should be the last time this happens. (Well, it would be for a normal person, but Yut-Lung can be so dramatic sometimes, Sing doesn’t really know what to expect.)

“Come here,” Sing says softly, before crawling onto the bed. And, without a warning, he reaches over and pulls the other into a tight hug. He can feel him shaking, and it makes Sing’s chest ache, so he pulls him tigher. Only when Yut-Lung begins to sob again does he requite the hug.

“You’re doing well,” Sing whispers, rubbing his back. “You’re almost there.”

“I’m not!” Yut-Lung whines, tearing himself out of Sing’s grip. He rubs his eyes, then begins fiddling with his tangled hair, and as he does so, he mutters, “I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to _be_ here any-“

“Quit it with the goddamn suicidal bullshit, Yue!” Sing yells. From the way Yut-Lung flinches, he realises that perhaps that was a bit rash – he’s rarely the first of them to lose his temper.

The next sign that Yut-Lung has reached his limit is the fact that he doesn’t yell back. He doesn’t snap. Instead, Yut-Lung simply lowers his head, and continues crying, and for a brief second, Sing wonders whether letting him go back to being a closeted alcoholic and being drunk 24/7 would be easier. Quickly, he banishes that thought from his head, reminding himself of how far they’ve come, and how that was _never_ a sustainable solution, either.

Yut-Lung has to realise that for himself, though.

After a few more minutes of watching Yut-Lung cry, Sing notices he stops, but soon discovers he only stopped for the sake of gagging, and throwing up again; thankfully into the bucket, albeit it wouldn’t have been if Sing hadn’t caught on, and hastily passed it to him.

When Yut-Lung finishes puking, which happens pretty quickly, because he hasn’t eaten much, the room falls into silence.

“Why do you drink?” Sing asks. It’s probably not the question Yut-Lung was expecting, or hoping for, but it’s the best he can do, because Sing knows he’ll never be able to explain to him why he _shouldn’t_ drink himself to misery if he doesn’t know why he even does it in the first place.

At the question, Yut-Lung merely pouts, then averts his gaze to the opposite wall, as he mumbles under his breath, “As a distraction. Because I can.”

It’s a weak excuse for an answer, but it answers everything Sing needs to know: that Yut-Lung doesn’t actually know why himself, either.

“It’s not, though,” Sing says, tucking his leg under his thigh. He fiddles with his fingers, unable to meet the other’s eyes even if he is trying to initiate eye contact. “At the bottom of the bottle, there’s nothing. You know that.”

“It doesn’t feel like it though,” Yut-Lung mutters, his hands returning to his hair, loosely plaiting it. “There’s an escape.”

“Only for a bit,” Sing says. He pauses, before asking again, “and after that?”

Yut-Lung frowns again, visibly gritting his teeth. He’s clearly not used to being proven wrong, and if it wasn’t for the fact he was totally and utterly exhausted right now, Sing might have even laughed.

“Another bottle…” Yut-Lung answers eventually.

“Which is the same thing,” Sing replies, “so, there’s nothing.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right,” Yut-Lung says, words filled with hopelessness. He inhales a deep breath, then picks up the bottle of water, only to discover it’s empty. With a face resembling a toddler on the brink of a tantrum, he tosses the bottle onto the floor, then slumps back against the pillows. “I feel guilty.”

Sing raises an eyebrow. “About?”

“Ash,” Yut-Lung says, and the moment the word leaves his lips, Sing’s heart throbs. “And Eiji… and Shorter. It was all my fault.”

It takes an extraordinary amount of willpower on Sing’s behalf not to say _“yeah, it was your fault”._ But at the same time, Yut-Lung knows that, a large proportion of what happened _is_ his fault, and there’s no point pretending it wasn’t.

Instead, Sing just shrugs, and says, “The past can’t be changed.” He frowns. “And becoming an alcoholic definitely can’t change it.”

“Hmph,” Yut-Lung grunts, then buries himself deeper into the sheets. “Fine. I’ll _try_.” The silence which follows doesn’t last long. “Now get out. I want to sleep.”

“I’m glad you’ll _try_ ,” Sing grumbles, mocking him. Deep down, though, he’s _relieved_ , to tell the truth. Finally, after a few days – even a couple of months – he finally feels as though he’s gotten through to Yut-Lung.

“Thank you, by the way,” Yut-Lung says almost inaubly, right before Sing leaves the room.

Sing doesn’t say it, but hearing the other say that truly warms his heart, and he finds himself genuinely proud of the other.

(Although, _that_ , he’ll _never_ say.) 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! please do leave me your thoughts! :3


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